


In Earnest

by neonunau



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Love Triangles, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonunau/pseuds/neonunau
Summary: a letter written in haste when you were fifteen and in love with your best friend gets sent out in the dawn of your engagement. when a reply is sent, revealing feelings you had long thought forgotten, you are left with a choice to make amidst a rather awkward visit.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Reader, Moon Taeil/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	In Earnest

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to neonun-au.tumblr.com

The long, warm rays of the sun stretch over the fields of your childhood as you sit on the stone fence at the edge of your family’s estate, legs swinging in a manner unbefitting a young woman soon to be engaged. A gentle spring breeze stirs as your hair, blowing over you as it moves westward across the countryside on its journey and you sit, book in hand, wrapped in the warmth of it. Words dance on the page before your eyes as you try and focus on the story, pulling your attention into the narrative only to have it drawn back out towards the horizon over the golden fields of wheat and rye. With a sigh, you snap the book shut and slip from atop the rock wall, landing in the soft earth below. 

Skirts dragging against the long grass as you walk, you make your way through the field--wheat stalks brush against your bare arms, parting for you as you stride forward past the cows and sheep and towards and old grove of trees by the meandering creek where you spent so many of your days in childlike rapture and leisure. Amongst the flurry of balls, social gatherings, and visits expected of you now you have hardly had time to come and sit among the trees over these past few years. Social propriety and demands have all but replaced the imagination of your youth and yet the trees welcome you in as an old friend--beckoning you forth into their shade and kissing your cheeks with the morning dew. 

One old tree, of gnarled roots and rough bark, sits chief among them in the center of the grove. Images of your sister and you swinging from its long branches and knotted limbs. Nestled amongst its jutting roots for a midday picnic without a care for the mud on the hems of your dresses. With a smile you walk towards the tree, hand outstretched in greeting, and feel your way across the trunk. The knots and rough bark ripple under your fingers--a map of the tree's life spread out under your touch, and you move around it until you meet a familiar dip in the bark. A carving of a memory long thought forgotten.

Your fingers trace the loops of the heart, the curves of the letters, and a face swims into your vision to join your childhood self as she runs through the fields and trees. A boy of honey brown hair and an even sweeter voice with whom the days seemed to stretch onwards into infinity. A boy you had made promise you at 11 years old that he would marry you when you were both older so that you could live together until eternity. A boy with the spark of love buried in the dark browns of his eyes, waiting for age and maturity to bring it to the forefront. A boy who just smiled, laughed, and chased you through the dawn soaked fields until you both collapsed from exhaustion by the river. A boy who leaned over with a grin and said “I promise.” 

The promises of youth are delicate. They are made in the heat of summer, under the swell of the sun and the naive feelings that blossom in the hearts of every young person as they grow and discover themselves and others. They are a glass vase, thin and ready to be broken--or simply tucked away on a high shelf and left forgotten and collecting dust as the years pass. 

Now, standing in our adulthood in the place of your youth that promise is but a lingering nudge at the edge of your mind--a loose thread dangling free in the wind, waiting to be tugged on an unraveled. The boy stands with it, a denizen of a memory of a time when the sun shone down on you in smiles and in hope, lighting up your world with the naive exhilaration of young love.

You smile down at the carved imprint of a heart, transported back for a moment to that time, before someone clears their throat behind you, “what are you doing out here?” You spin on your heels, body moving unconsciously to shield the glyph from prying eyes and see Sicheng standing at the edge of the grove--sunlight filtering down through the tree tops and sprinkling him in flecks of golden light. He stands with a wry grin, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you regain your composure after the sudden interruption of your daydreams. 

“Nothing,” you laugh, returning his smile--closing the lid on your memories as you take a step towards him. “Just wanted to go for a walk.” 

“Well don’t wander too far,” he extends his arms for you to take and you accept, looping your arm through his and walking side by side into the sunlight. “You might not be able to find your way back.” 

“It’s not that far,” you counter, peeking up at him as he stares ahead towards the estate in the distance, sprawling out over the field in a mass of grey stone. The wry smile has softened slightly, but it still remains settled on his lips. 

You didn’t know what to make of Sicheng at first as he stood off to the side of the village ball. New to the community by way of both work and friends, and every bit as awkward as someone who has just accidentally walked in on someone in a state of undress. You watched as he stood, making polite yet stiff conversation with the men of the village and avoiding eye contact with everyone until your mother, not one to ever waste an opportunity, strong-armed your father into introducing the entire family to him. 

He seemed to sense in you a kindred spirit--someone there in a similar situation, uninterested in the gossip and the frivolity of the ball, but dragged there by social expectation and family ties. You spoke for a while, and the tension in his shoulders visibly eased minute by minute until he worked up the courage to ask for a dance; after which your mother adopted him immediately as a friend of the family and he has not had a moment of peace since. 

A fact which you love to tease him about at any given opportunity. 

“What are you doing out here today, Sicheng?” You ask as you walk past the cows grazing in the field, arm still hooked securely through his. 

“Your father asked me round to discuss the merger of the mill in town,” he shakes his head and you laugh at what you can only imagine was an incredibly dry conversation. “Dreadfully boring. Then your mother noticed you wander off into the woods and sent me to fetch you.” 

“Scandalous, a young man and woman out to pasture together unmarried,” you tease, nudging your elbow into his side and eliciting a brief laugh. “My mother must really trust you.” 

“Yes, well if only she knew that the only reason I agree to come and talk to your father about all of this nonsense is to have the chance to speak with you,” the teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed; you can tell it’s meant as a joke, but there is an air of truth to it as well and the comment sinks under your skin, stilling the air around you. Suddenly, his arm against yours feels too real, too solid. You feel altogether too close to him and yet not close enough. You glance up and see his gaze still fixated forward towards your home, the sunlight gleaming over him and bathing him in the golden light of the afternoon. 

“When do you return to town?” you shift the conversation, eager for a reprieve from the constricting of your heart in your chest. 

“In three days time,” he replies, releasing your arm to step through the gate into the gardens--holding it open for you to pass through behind him. 

“So soon?” you glance at him in surprise. In the month he had been here, visiting in the afternoons and attending dinner parties, he had not made mention of the date of his inevitable return to town, so hearing the answer now was a slight shock. 

Sicheng nods, and you loop your arms through his once more as you ascend the stone pathway towards the front of the stone house. “Unfortunately,” he sighs, “it was meant to be next month but I’ve been called away on business.” 

“I see,” you trail off, slipping your arm free from his as you open the door to your house and usher him inside. A strange sense of melancholy takes over, sweeping the sunshine away from your thoughts and replacing them with the grey clouds that precipitate a sky before a storm. In barely two months time, you’ve come to enjoy Sicheng’s company and appearances in your life. They’ve become regular and comforting in a way you haven’t felt from anyone’s company in a long time. Not since you were young and could still run wild without thought of propriety. 

“I was hoping, actually, to talk with you before I left,” he starts, breaking through the clouds in your mind. You can hear the hesitation clear in his voice as he talks, a small shy smile painting his handsome features. 

“About what?” The heat of curiosity builds in your mind, swirling thoughts joining the fray. A buzzing excitement as you watch him formulate the words--the wheels in his mind turning into place behind his soft brown eyes. He’s building to something, grasping onto a thread of courage and you silently pray that he manages to keep hold as you feel your heart rise into your throat. His fingers twitch at his side, as if fighting to urge to reach for your hand and you feel your skin prickle at the thought. 

“I was hoping--” 

“_____,” your sister, Lydia, comes crashing through the parlour, skirts billowing behind her as she races towards you--coming to an abrupt halt as she sees you and Sicheng both staring back at her. 

“H-hello, Mr. Dong, I didn’t--umm,” she thumbs the letter in her hand, nerves plain on her face as she tries to regain her calm after the frantic entrance, “I didn’t realise you were still here.” She offers an awkward curtsy in his direction and you can hear the stifled laughter as he bows back. 

“Hello Ms. _____, I trust you are well?” 

“Very, thank you,” she nods, swallowing and you have to stifle your own laugh at the awkward atmosphere now pervading the room. She turns towards you, eyes pleading, “may I speak with you a moment?” 

You glance at Sicheng and he smiles, “I should be going.” All hints of what he had been planning on saying before the interruption is wiped clear from his expression and you can’t help the sense of slight bitterness towards your sister that rises in your stomach like bile as he turns to leave. 

“Your mother invited me for dinner tomorrow evening before I take my leave,” he adds, hand on the brass knob of the door, “I hope we can finish talking then.” With a final nod and smile he leaves closes the door behind him--you watch through the window as he walks down the stone pathway towards his horse before your sister calls your attention back to her with a pointed cough. 

“Did he ask you?” she asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity. 

“Ask me what?” you move away from the entrance and flop down onto the plush cream settee at the side of the room--legs grateful for the relief after an afternoon spent traipsing through the field. 

“Don’t be daft, I know you know he is planning on proposing to you,” she sits down next to you in a huff, splaying her skirts out below her and knocking you on the shoulder with her closed fist--envelope still clutched tight in her hand, but evidently forgotten for the moment.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were in his confidence regarding the matter,” you tease, drawing a flustered expression from her as she pouts at you. 

“I don’t need to be to know,” she grumbles, “everyone says. Especially mama.” 

The rumours had been circulating since that first ball and you were not oblivious to them. But rumours were just that rumours--unsubstantiated whisperings passed around by bored men and women at parties and in parlours, and you preferred to keep your hopes out of their baseless grasp as long as you were able to. You couldn’t deny, however, that the hope was there. That it had wound its way into your heart, filling your mind and soul with a buoyancy you haven’t felt since your youth. 

The thought of Sicheng in front of you, extending his hand for yours, and asking to keep it forever is a thought that you couldn’t deny having had more than once. 

But you were not going to give your prying sister the satisfaction of knowing this. Instead you stare deadpan at her as she sits with a pout on her face, waiting for a reaction. The standoff continues for a moment in silence before she resigns and sighs, thrusting the letter she had been clutching in her hand towards you, “here, it’s for you.” 

You pluck the paper from her fingers, and examine the envelope--torn open already by nosy fingertips and nails. “You opened it?” The accusation is more tired than biting, but she cowers under it anyway--defensive. 

“No,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in a decidedly unladylike manner--a habit which your mother has tried to scold her out of for years now. “Mama opened it.” 

“And then you read it,” you sigh, running your eyes over the script of the envelope. Handwriting both familiar and unfamiliar. A name you haven’t seen in years scrawled in the top left corner in looping cursive--Moon Taeil. Your heart leaps into your throat at the sight, your sister's protestations fade into background noise as you focus on the name written on the sheet of white before you--transfixed by memory and recognition. 

“Are you listening to me?” Lydia’s voice bleeds through the swell in your mind as you slip the letter out of the envelope--delicate, as if it might break at the barest whisper of a breath--and unfold it in your hands. You brush aside her attempts at getting your attention and fix your gaze on the words unfolding on the page. 

_ Dearest ______, _

_ Firstly, I hope you receive this letter in good health, and that your family is well. I am sorry we never kept up correspondence as we had promised when I first left for the city. I have so much to tell you and yet I feel that most of it is entirely pointless now, so it might be better left unsaid for now; at least until we are able to speak in person.  _

_ I’m not sure when this letter will arrive, but my intention is for it to precede my own arrival by at least a day or so. I had been planning on visiting for quite some time, but it was a thought always pushed to the back of my mind as life and present matters took over but receiving your letter resurfaced the desire to return.  _

_ I must say receiving your letter was a slight shock, but certainly not an unwelcome one. Truthfully, there hasn’t been a day that has passed that I have not thought of you or of the time we spent together as children and even into our early adolescence. I hadn’t dared to hope that you remembered, or even returned the feelings that I had held close to my heart since those days, but reading your words brought that hope back to life.  _

_ I look forward to seeing you again at last,  _

_ Yours Truly,  _

_ Taeil _

You sit in silence for a moment, staring blank faced down at the letter as your sister leans over your shoulder trying desperately to read the lines of ink scrawled delicately over the page. “Well,” she whines--giving up, “what does it say?” 

Without a glance spared in her direction, you stand up and race out of the parlour--brushing past your confused mother as you dart up the staircase towards your bedroom. 

“Oh, did you get the letter?” your mother calls after you, leaning heavily over the banister, but you staunchly ignore her--running in a blind panic into your room and tearing into the trunk at the foot of your bed. No mind paid for the mess you’re creating as you pull out ribbons, books, and trinkets from the large, ornately carved wooden box. Buried at the bottom of the trunk lies a small box of letters, hidden from the prying eyes of your family--or at least you had thought it was hidden from the prying eyes of your family. Looking now, as you sit splayed out on the floor of your bedroom amongst a haphazard pile of items tossed around you, it’s clear that it has been rifled through since you last looked inside of it. 

From the pile of letters hidden away amongst your treasures and belongings, only one is missing. One tear-stained, hastily written piece of parchment snatched from the stack of otherwise inconsequential letters by the fingers of someone who was incapable of minding their own business or of leaving well enough alone. 

“Don’t be mad,” you hear your sister’s voice from behind you, she stands in the doorway playing with her fingers, watching your back as you begin the gather up your things with a sigh--tossing them back into the trunk and closing the lid with a snap before turning to face her. 

The mixture of anger and embarrassment that has overcome your thoughts swells near to bursting as you glare at her through a fog of red. She opens her mouth to speak, fear dancing in her eyes as she tries to placate you--tries to give some meager explanation for her actions--but you stalk forward with a fury you didn’t know you possessed. A moment before you can catch her sleeves she turns and races down the hallway, leaping down the staircase, and hiding behind your bewildered mother--hoping desperately for a shield from your wrath. 

A sliver of clarity leeches through the haze surrounding you, sounding out like a bell through your angered mind, and instead of reaching for her with clawing hands like you’re itching to, you stalk through the front door of the house and out into the gardens. A light drizzle of rain has begun in the time between your walk through the fields and now, but you pay it no mind--only too grateful for the company of the raindrops alongside the tears that are beginning to fall from your eyes. 

You can hear the front door open and close behind you, footsteps crunching along the dirt and gravel of the path you are currently trodding on towards no destination, but you don’t give them the satisfaction of turning. Instead you pick up your pace, hastening your already brisk gait until you’re nearly running towards the creek at the edge of the estate--searching for some escape, some reprieve, from the suffocating presence of your family to gather your thoughts and emotions. 

Missing the hint as usual, they don’t give you the satisfaction. Voices call out from behind you, entreating you to turn and face them but they only serve to heighten the flush of rage through your veins.

By the time you reach the edge of the water, your body is shaking, whether from the cold or the overwhelm you’re not sure. You stand, staring out over the water as it rushes downstream, blinking away the tears stinging at your eyes. “Oh, will you stop being so dramatic,” your mother finally catches up with you--her curls and skirts drenched with rain and you know she’s never going to let you live it down. “Apologize to your sister.” 

You balk at her, open mouthed with shock and horror, “me? Apologize to her?” 

“Yes, you scared her,” she nods, arms crossed and eyes set in a determined stare, “besides, you shouldn’t be racing down the stairs like an angry child at your age. Not when you are so close to being engaged, just think; what would your fiance say about this behaviour?” 

“I don’t have a fiance,” you shoot back, mirroring her stance, “and if I did, and he were a man of any brains at all, he would say I have every right to wring her neck for what she’s done.” 

“Mama,” Lydia whines, still hiding behind the impassive figure standing before you in rain-soaked linens. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I just sent out a letter.” 

“A letter that was never yours to send,” you shout, earning yourself a withering glare from your mother for your raised tone. The anger that had been coursing through your body has ebbed away to a dull ache--you’re left standing in the rain before them with tired limbs and a tired mind. “Why?” All life, all fight drains from your body, left now with the only question that matters hanging in the damp, cool air between you. 

She doesn’t answer. She stares at you, an expression of haughty defiance painting her face, and after a minute of silence--a cold standoff at the edge of the river--you brush past them and stride back towards the house. Resigning yourself to never knowing; to life never being that same as it was mere hours ago when you were standing peacefully in the midday sun, unaware of the storm waiting for you in the shadows. 

Your mother hurries to catch up with you, “you’ll forgive her. She is your sister, after all, you’ve only got each other.” 

You fight back the urge to shout again, to admonish her for always taking the side of your younger sibling even when it was clear she was in the wrong. Instead you halt in your step and turn to her, another question pressing at the forefront of your mind, “you read the letter?” 

“I suppose we’ll be having two guests for dinner tomorrow night,” she muses, managing at least to look somewhat apologetic for your current state of affairs despite the obvious delight swimming behind her eyes. Two potential love matches for her daughter, and all the drama that a bored housewife could possibly desire has finally planted itself in her lap and she is enjoying every second of it. 

“Don’t you have any shame at all?” 

“Oh, don’t pretend like you’re not excited to see the Moon boy,” she says, trailing after you as you resume your brisk pace towards the safety of the house. “I always thought you two might get engaged, but then he left and Mr. Dong seems an excellent second choice.” 

You pointedly ignore her as she continues to speak her thoughts out loud, following behind you as you head up to your room in search of dry clothing and some reprieve from her aimless nagging. “Mother,” you spin towards her, stopping her in the threshold of your bedroom, “I can tell you are gleaning some great joy from this situation, but please for once in your life have some pity on me and leave me alone.” 

She opens her mouth as if to speak again but you close the door before she gets the chance, blocking out her protestations as you sink down onto the oak floor in a puddle of linen skirts and despair. 

\--

Dinner that night is suffocating. Your father relishes the rare silence at the table while you coldly pass bowls of potatoes and vegetables to your sister, avoiding eye contact even as she nudges you under the table with her foot. You know your behaviour is childish--unbecoming of someone your age, as your mother would say, despite her own childish actions--but you can’t bring yourself to come to a place of peace and forgiveness quite yet. The letter still looms in your mind like a parchment monolith, a cloud hanging over all of your thoughts even as you try to distract yourself after dinner with a book by the fireplace. Even as your mother tries to entice you into friendly gossip about how you think Taeil might have changed over the years, how he might measure up to Sicheng as a potential match. 

The evening drags on into night, darkness swallowing the estate, and your sister sits staring at you over her untouched needlework from the other side of the parlour. You raise your eyes to meet hers for a moment before turning back to your novel, resuming the standoff and sinking back into the silent treatment you are treating her with. 

In truth it has always been this way since childhood. Being the older sibling, you were given the task of being the responsible one. Of acting mature and setting an example for her to follow as she chased you through the fields, inserting herself in every possible situation with the carelessness of one who knows that they could get away with anything, should they so choose to. 

Your only reprieve from her prying eyes was when cousins and family would visit, capturing her wandering attention for long enough that you were able to slip out unnoticed and find solace outside, or in a book, or with Taeil. Peace from her endless questioning and imitations--from following you around like a lost, precocious child. 

The heat of her unwavering gaze burns into the top of your head as you try to follow the narrative of your story in the dim light of the fire. Eventually you give up, slipping the book back into its place on the shelf, and dismissing yourself with a good night to your father--absorbed in his own book and entirely uninterested in the dramatics brewing within his family. You sister follows in your footsteps, racing after you after her own hurried good nights are said. 

“Stop following me,” you spin around in the doorway to your room, arms crossed in defense over your chest--levelling her with a glare that you hope she takes seriously for once in her life. 

“You have to forgive me eventually,” Lydia says, matching your posture and meeting your gaze with her own determined stare. “You can’t be so upset about it forever.” It’s clear the silent treatment you’ve been giving her has wormed its way under her skin--plucking at the exact nerves that she tries so hard to ignore. Her disdain for being ignored--for being disliked even momentarily--working against her now in the confines of her own home. 

“Yes, I can,” you state, half-turning away from her towards your door before she stops you with a hand on your arm. 

“That’s not fair,” she whines, “what are you so upset about anyway? That you have two men in love with you?” The truth seeps through her words and you find the answer to your question from earlier finally in the subtext of her complaints. 

“Is that why you did it?” You ask, tugging at the loose thread she let slip in the subtext of her words, and probing her further, “jealousy?” 

“I’m not jealous,” she replies, but the pout that accompanies the statement indicates the exact opposite. “I just think it’s unfair that you’re marrying someone without telling them that you’re in love with someone else.” 

“I’m not marrying  _ anyone _ ,” you grit your teeth to keep from shouting and calling the attention of your parents into this conversation. The last thing you needed was the less than helpful advice of your mother, “I’m not even engaged. No one has asked me to marry them--no one.” You turn away from her to open the door to your room, eager to shut her out for the night and sink into the comfort of sleep, “and I’m not in love with Taeil.” 

She snorts, unconvinced, “that letter said otherwise.” 

“I wrote that letter when I was fifteen and he was leaving,” you reply with a glare, “things have changed.” 

“If you’re not still in love with him,” a small smile quirks up the corner of her lip, bringing another wave of rage crashing through you at the sight of it. Her smug expression lit low by the lanterns burning on the walls, “then why are you so mad?” 

With a huff you close the door, blocking out any further comments she might deem necessary to add--anything further to provoke you to anger. You pause a moment, staring at the dark wood of the door, and breathe. The urge to scream floods your thoughts and you move to lie flat on your bed before it bursts free completely. 

Sleep comes in fits and starts. Your dreams chase you through the night in a labyrinth of signs and symbols--always beginning and ending in that grove of trees on your family's estate. Each time you stand at the entrance to the greenery, hopeful anticipating bubbling up in your chest as you take a step forward. You walk forward in silence--no sound of birds, no sound of the wind, no sound but your own footsteps over the trodden soil as you walk towards the gnarled oak at the center of the grove with your hand outstretched towards the bark. 

The carved heart greets your fingers, initials swimming before your eyes. Taeil, Sicheng, Lydia's, your own name. They all traverse and coalesce on the expanse of broken brown wood, mingling with each other and transforming. Before it has a chance to settle, a branch breaks behind you and you turn to see who it is; a glimpse of muted fabric, a vaguely formed face, flashes in front of your vision before you are transported back to the field outside the trees--feet itching to carry you forward once again. 

You repeat this process, over and over, until the light breaking through the window above your bed stirs you to consciousness. You sigh and squirm deeper into the blankets, desperate to sink back into the embrace of dreams and avoid the inevitable disaster of the day that was waiting for you just beyond your room. 

A sharp knock on the door stirs you from this desire, "come down for breakfast," Lydia calls out to you and you listen to her footsteps disappear down the staircase before slipping out of bed and getting ready for the day. 

\--

The scent of eggs and ham greets you as you stumble down the stairs some time later--dressed in a simple frock belying the anxiety you feel coiled up in your stomach in anticipation of the day. Your mother greets you with a bright “good morning.” Completely at odds with the events unfolding in the home and you offer her a tired smile in response--content with staying in silence for as long as possible this morning. It takes you a moment to notice the figure sitting at the table, one at the same time so familiar and unfamiliar. Taeil smiles brightly at you over his plate of food and you feel your heart leap into your throat, mouth falling open in a silent gasp of surprise at his sudden appearance. 

“Taeil,” you exclaim, earning an admonishing glare from your mother. He stands, bowing slightly in greeting--smile never leaving his face. 

“Hello,” he replies, and you can hear the barely restrained laughter hiding in the tone of his voice. Your sister, on the other hand, laughs aloud at the look of pure shock on your face. 

“Oh, sit down before you fall down,” your sister says, reaching for another pastry in the center of the table. “It’s only Taeil.” 

You resist the temptation to openly glare at her and instead gather yourself into the seat across from Taeil--returning his smile with your own. “You’re here much sooner than expected,” you say, offering it as the only excuse for your astonishment at his presence at your family breakfast. 

“I arrived rather early this morning,” he nods. “Thankfully your father was awake and we had some time to catch up over tea. I’m glad to see you’re well,” his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and you can feel yourself slipping back into those old feelings. 

He’s older now--his jaw defined by the sharpness that comes with age, the loss of the soft roundness of youth--but he still looks exactly as you remember him. His brown eyes still hold that same sense of kindness and humour that filled your life with so much joy growing up. His smile is still as bright as it always was; a warm smile, both welcoming and genuine; it’s a smile that makes you wish you had sent that letter out years ago. Maybe it would have kept him here, with you at this table--maybe you could have watched as he transformed from the boy of your memory to the man sitting across from you now. 

“I’m well, thank you,” you reply, cutting into your own breakfast and turning away from his glance for a moment. “And you? Have you been--” a moment’s hesitation stops you. The others at the table intruding on this reunion with their endless curiosity and prying eyes fixed firmly on the pair of you; the knowledge that both your mother and sister are highly aware of the undercurrent of feelings--whether present or past--running between you stalls your speech. “Are you well?” You finish, clearing your throat and gathering yourself into a state of stoicism.

“Very well, thank you,” he replies with a wide grin--either oblivious to or entirely unperturbed by the thread of tension humming between you and the rest of your family. 

“Well,” your mother leans forward, towards Taeil, a conspiratorial glint in her eye as she begins speaking, “we are so glad to have you back with us. How long will you be staying?” 

“Only a week,” he replies, “I return to town next Sunday.” 

“And what brings you here so suddenly?” The brazenness of her question in light of everything she knows already shocks you and you sputter around a sip of water, earning a concerned glance from Taeil as you try and gather yourself. You knew your mother’s penchant for dramatics ran deep, but you never realised how insidious it was before now--before they it was turned on you. 

“Ah,” he starts, watching you closely for any hint of caution but you remain as neutral as possible. “I had been meaning to return for years now, I’ve been too long overdue for a visit. It has been years, even, since I’ve seen my own family’s estate.” 

“I see,” your mother sighs, correcting her posture and sitting upright--her desire for a dramatic breakfast proposal being thwarted, she changes topic and shifts to Taeil’s current business practices. How he is getting along as a barrister in town during these troubled times. He is quick to content her with talk, offering up tidbits of gossip from town that might interest her, and you feel a rush of gratitude towards him for so easily flowing with her changing moods and temperament. A feat not easily undertaken. 

Conversation continues late into the morning, with even your father chiming in here and there--forgoing his usual method of just staying entirely silent until reproached by your mother and instead offering up comments entirely unprovoked to the surprise and delight of the same woman who is usually provoking him. You pick at the food on your plate, watching Taeil from across the table even as your sister silently teases you for it from her own seat. Finally, the plates are all cleared away and you stand, ready to stretch your stiff muscles outside of the house.

“Why don’t you three kids take a walk,” your mother prompts--taking notice of your fidgeting. “I have to make preparations for the dinner tonight.” 

“Oh, there’s no need to go to such trouble on my account,” Taeil holds his hands up as if to ward off the worst of your mother’s efforts. 

“It’s not just for  _ you _ ,” Lydia sighs, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “it’s for Mr. Dong.” 

“Who--” Taeil starts, glancing at you with confusion passing over his face in a wave before your mother cuts him off. 

“Don’t be rude, Lydia,” she admonishes her, “it’s for both of you. Mr. Dong has become a very welcome part of our family gatherings since he arrived not two months ago.” She moves behind you, hustling the three of you out of the dining room and towards the front door in a manner befitting a sheepdog rather than a mother. “The girls will tell you all about him, I’m sure. 

The door is closed on you before you have the chance to protest and you turn towards Taeil with a heavy sigh, “I guess we are taking a walk, then.” 

“Your mother certainly has not changed over all these years,” he laughs, offering his arm to you to take as you begin to descend down the stone path leading through the gardens. The rain of the previous day is all but gone, leaving nothing but the odd puddle dotting the path as you walk along at an easy pace--grateful for the warm, golden sun as it streams down on you. 

You slip your arm through Taeil’s and marvel at the familiarity. Though it’s been years since your last exchange of letters, and even longer since you last saw each other in person, the ease with which you slip back into old comforts in his presence is nothing short of remarkable. You spend the first half of the walk catching up--exchanging stories of the goings-on around the village and in town since you last spoke. Lydia walks a ways ahead of you, constantly looking back as if to invite herself into the conversation before inevitably turning around and resuming her stride. 

The silence emanating from her is a slight worry that worms its way into the back of your mind, but you brush it aside as you continue to fall back into the old familiar pattern of your friendship with Taeil. It feels as if he had never left; that despite the growth in each of you as a person, both physically and mentally, there had merely been a pause put on your relationship. A brief interlude that existed merely to bring you to this moment in time where you could be together again. 

The comfort is at once welcome and disconcerting. The thought of Taeil’s letter, the implication of his feelings, still lingers in the back of your mind alongside the image of Sicheng; as much as you want to ignore those pressing worries, they sit there staring at you, pulling you away from the present moment. As Taeil talks, regaling you with tales from his time at college and in his current employment, you can see those same worries and thoughts mingling behind his eyes. The same hesitation keeping him from broaching either topic. You’re each waiting, enjoying each other's company in the moment while expecting some bubble to burst to bring things to the surface. 

“So,” your sister struts over to you as you sit in the grass by the river, knees tucked tight to your chest. She sits down in front of you, her skirts pooling around her in a pile of blue and white, and you brace yourself for whatever she had been planning during her extended silence on your walk. The tension still lingering between you from yesterday had not ebbed away, and as long as you have known your sister you have known her to be nothing if not stubborn. 

Taeil looks at her with open curiosity, eager to hear what she has to say after barely acknowledging him during the walk thus far, “yes?” 

“Did she tell you about Sicheng yet?” 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Dong,” Lydia sighs, exasperated at Taeil’s inability to keep up with current events and people he’s never met. 

“Ah,” Taeil nods, eyes flicking to you for a moment before he turns his gaze back to Lydia. “No…” he trails off, unsure of what to say under the heat of her impending inquisition. 

“So she hasn’t told you?” A smirk curls up the corner of her lip as she looks at Taeil--smug and assured. 

“Lydia,” you warn, using every ounce of strength and resilience in your body to resist leaping forward and tackling her to the ground before she can say anything further. 

The warning in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by Taeil and you can feel him stiffen next to you; the fear of whatever is being left unsaid creeping under his skin and nestling there like a slumbering bear at the cusp of spring. “Told me what?” He asks, hesitation clear in his voice even as he ventures forward. You want to tug him up off the ground and race away from her--towards the trees, to a place used as solace from her nearly everyday in your youth. To hide from her and from the realities of the situation you find yourself currently stranded in. 

“They’re engaged,” she says finally, leaning back on her arms and watching Taeil’s face fall as she speaks. 

“Lydia,” you all but shout her name, startling a bird resting on a nearby bush and sending it flying into the air with an alarmed chirp. “We are  _ not _ engaged.” 

“You might as well be,” she shouts back, balling her fists up in her skirts and fixing you with a glare, “I know that’s why he’s coming for dinner tonight.” 

“You don’t know anything,” the cold anger seething in your voice surprises you, but the buttons have been pressed and you can do nothing now except follow the thread of them. “I don’t know what games you’re playing, Lydia--whether you’re bored or just jealous--but it’s not funny. Leave me alone.” 

Whatever outcome she had hoped to garner from engineering this confrontation, this was not it. You watch as she picks herself up off the ground in a huff and stalks back towards the house--no doubt seeking the solace of your mother’s ever-forgiving arms. The rage subsides as she disappears from view; instead you feel hollow, staring out over the meandering creek as it carves its path through the fields. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, glancing sideways at Taeil. He sits still, in a state of mild shock at the outburst, and makes no indication of either moving or speaking. Birds fly overhead, chirping in high-pitched tones as they make their way towards some unknown destination--wings disturbing the otherwise still air surrounding you. Silence stretches onwards, and you sit with your head resting on your arms, wishing you could travel back in time to prevent this from ever happening. 

But what time would you travel back to? To prevent Lydia from ever finding the letter in the first place, would you not have written it? Would you have instead bottled up those feelings that, at the time, were so overwhelming they demanded a two-page long letter to express? 

Would you go back and refuse to meet Sicheng at the ball? 

Or would you travel back the span of a day and make peace with your sister. Approach her not from anger but instead from a space of understanding and diplomacy--if only to smooth her ruffled feathers and prevent the fight that had been brewing in the pot of tension between you. 

The answer never comes. All of the possibilities--of what could have been or what might have been--are dangled before you, but you know there is no going back; you are left now simply to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of what is. 

Taeil breaks the tense silence after a few minutes, “is it true?” He asks, the hope and fear in his voice send a pang of guilt through your heart--piercing the already bruised organ further at the sound. 

“We’re not engaged,” you say, unsure of how else to phrase the inbetween state of being that exists between you and Sicheng. That period of time when both of you know what the next step is but still have not moved a muscle to take it. 

“Why did you send the letter?” He asks, twisting the knife of guilt and shame further and deeper into you with the tone of despair leaking out over every word. You turn to look at him, meeting his gaze head on to see the heartbreak glistening in his warm, brown eyes. 

The threat of tears prick behind your own as you look at him, desperately searching your brain for an answer that will make all of this go away--but none surface. Instead you are left with nothing but a confused tangle of emotions churning inside of you, clouding your thoughts with the force of them. You brace yourself for his possible reaction to the truth, averting your eyes back towards the blue river, “I didn’t send it.” The confession rolls out of your mouth like a prayer for peace and you can hear Taeil as he takes a steadying breath beside you. 

“Do you love him?” The question hangs in the air between you, bringing you at once closer together with the weight of it and thrusting you further apart in the implication. 

“I don’t know,” you had never been able to lie around Taeil. Not since you were children stealing bread and cheese from the kitchens for your own tea parties in the garden. Not since you were youths of twelve telling each other your deepest secrets as you laid next to each other in the field watching the clouds pass overhead. The truth, however painful it may be, was always the only route you were ever able to take when held under the weight of his gaze--transfixed by the warmth in his soft, brown eyes. 

“Could you love him?” 

“Yes,” you sigh, nodding. “I could.” 

His next question comes out as a whisper, barely heard of the sound of the water below and the birds overhead--almost as if he was too afraid to ask it, “do you love me?” 

What could you say? What answer was there to give?  _ ‘Of course, Taeil, you’re my best friend.’ _ While it remains true, you know that it isn’t what he’s asking you; you can read the deeper implication hidden in the question, you know the depth and gravity of the words he is choosing. You turn towards him, twisting the knife in your heart one final time, “I don’t know.” 

Another moment of silence passes--severing the calm sense of familiarity and comfort that had settled between you since his arrival at your family’s estate that morning. You stare out unblinking into the horizon, waiting for the rain clouds to appear--to match your mood with their dreary presence, but the sky remains unashamedly blue. 

Taeil stands up after a sigh, and reaches a hand out to help you up. You look at his fingers in surprise at the gesture after your confession, but he just smiles down at you sadly. “Come on,” he says and you take his hand. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, unclear as to his intentions now that everything has been laid bare under the afternoon sun. 

“I’m walking you home,” he says simply, before pulling you to your feet and heading back down the path away from the running water and golden wheat fields. 

\--

The afternoon drags on, spent in the midst of an uncomfortable silence in the parlour with your sister and mother. Taeil excused himself shortly after returning back to your home to go to his family’s estate with the excuse of needing to get ready for the dinner that night. A part had been expecting him to feign illness and retire for the rest of the evening, but no doubt the pressure of social graces as well as his own unwavering politeness entreated him to keep the engagement. 

The book open between your hands may as well be blank for all the attention you’re paying it; your mind is instead swimming with thoughts of your fight with your sister, and of the subsequent conversation with Taeil--replaying it over and over. His face, crestfallen and sad, lingers in the forefront of your mind. Lydia sits across from you, puncturing the fabric of her needlework aimlessly as she switches between pouting and glaring in your direction while your mother pointedly ignores you both in favour of hemming the dress her own sister recently passed on to her. 

Your father, attuned as usual to the moods of the house, avoids the parlour entirely. 

The silent contemplation brings you no sense of reprieve by the time Sicheng arrives for the evening. Hours spent pondering your options--alternating back and forth between him and Taeil and your confused feelings for both men--have brought no clear conclusion forward. In the wake of the afternoon, you prepare yourself for what was sure to be a bizarre dinner party, begging your mother not to sit you next to Lydia at the table for everyone’s sake. 

Thankfully she obliges, seating you instead between Taeil and Sicheng for her own amusement--the latter of which being entirely unaware of the state of affairs he is about to enter into with this dinner. The table is set, the people are seated, and your mother begins with an overwhelmingly passionate monologue of gratitude towards the two young gentlemen joining your family that evening. 

“Mr. Moon,” she smiles, passing a bowl of potatoes towards him, “how happy we are to see you at long last back home, as I already said this morning.” You roll your eyes at the emphatic speech, catching the gaze of your sister in a similar state of reproach and almost laughing with her before you correct yourself and turn back towards your plate of food. “I do so hope you will be back to visit much more in the future.”

“Of course,” Taeil nods his gratitude towards her, a placating smile stretching over his lips as he passes the bowl towards his own mother who had invited herself over as soon as she heard about the occasion. 

“I’ve already admonished him, Gloria,” she laughs, scooping a healthy serving of the starchy vegetable onto her own plate before handing it off down the line. “It has been far too long since I have seen my own son and what does he do when he arrives? He comes to your estate for breakfast without even first saying hello to me.” She shakes her head and shares another laugh with your own mother. They are, as always, two birds of a feather when in the company of each other--delighting in gossip and unwarranted comments as often as they can catch a breath to share them. 

“Now, Mr. Dong,” your mother shifts her attention towards the man at your right side, smiling at him as if he were a newborn baby, “I am saddened to hear that you have to leave us so soon, but we have very much enjoyed your company these past few months and do so hope you will be back again soon.” 

“Of course,” he returns her smile with his own. You can feel the heat of his thigh next to your own under the table, the closeness of him on your one side and Taeil on the other nearly suffocating you in your seat. “There is a lot to come back for.” 

The comment doesn’t go unnoticed by either your sister, who has to feign a brief coughing fit to cover her laughter, or Taeil whose hand tenses around the fork in his grasp even as his expression remains still and unbothered. The conversation is dissolved and dispersed amongst the table throughout the meal; your father catches Sicheng’s attention and, unusually talkative, entreats him with discussion of the new mill being built in town. Both your and Taeil’s mothers trade local gossip, as well as any anecdotes they can remember from the most recent ball, to keep each other entertained while you and Taeil sit in abject silence next to each other--eyes focused on the food on your plates in front of you. 

Everyone retires to the parlour after dinner, mingling in small groups with you and your sister sitting in silence at the edge of room--watching as your mother’s laugh grows louder and your father’s passionate discussions about the price of rye take on a life of their own, while Sicheng just nods patiently and listens. Gravity and familiarity pull the two of you closer together, seeking some solace in each other as the only two outsiders in your own home. 

“You were right,” she heaves a sigh, turning to you with a brief glance. 

“What was I right about?” You keep your eyes trained towards the room, watching as Taeil and Sicheng strike up a conversation with each other and desperately wishing you were close enough to hear them. Lydia calls your attention back to her with a dramatic groan. 

“I was jealous,” she admits and you look at her in a mixture of shock and admiration at the sudden confession. “It was stupid, and I’m sorry. In my defense I didn’t know it was going to be so--” she pauses, waving a hand in a dramatic gesture towards the rest of the room, “dramatic.” 

You choke back a bark of astonished laughter, completely at odds with how you had been feeling for the first portion of the evening; all fight had been entirely drained out of you and despite the desire to continue dragging her over the coals for her sin, you give in to the shared bond that exists between you as sisters, “me either.” You say simply.

“Do you forgive me?” She asks, a spark of hope lighting up her voice and you laugh. 

“No,” you reply, grinning at her, “but I will.” 

“I can accept that,” she nods once, smiling back at you before drifting towards your mother and inserting herself into a conversation around pregnancy rumours in the village--a topic that is sure to keep all three of them enraptured for the remainder of the evening, as nothing is more exciting than the threat of children to women who have none to worry over anymore.

Left alone, you wander towards Taeil and Sicheng; buoyed by the reconciliation with your sister and resigned to swallowing the rest of your fate as it stands before you. “Are we still discussing mills and rye?” You ask, nodding towards your father who has taken it upon himself to sink into silence with a book in front of the fire, having exhausted all avenues of conversation that he is even remotely invested in. 

Sicheng laughs, shaking his head with a mock grimace, “no, actually. As it turns out, once you’ve already talked about the price of grain for well over an hour, there isn’t much left to be said.” 

Taeil nods, a genuine peal of laughter emitting at the comment--all hint of heartbreak washed clean from his face and you can see that he and Sicheng are getting along despite themselves. The confusion returns anew, revitalized in your mind, and you can’t be sure whether this development is good or bad even as you stand by to watch it unfold. 

“No,” Taeil says, “I was just asking him about his time in London.” 

“A truly horrible place,” Sicheng shudders at the thought of the city, drawing another laugh forward from Taeil and plucking another thread of nerves inside your throat. “No, I am quite happy to be away from there for the time being. The quiet of the countryside suits me, I think.” 

“It is certainly quiet,” Taeil nods just as a loud bout of laughter sounds out from the group of women on the settee near the fireplace, a wry smile dancing on his lips. 

“And you are from here originally?” Sicheng asks, glancing over at Taeil’s mother as she stands to imitate one of the women from the village. 

“Yes, we grew up together,” he nods, gesturing towards you with the reply. Sicheng glances between you, some sense of recognition lighting up the honey browns of his irises as he does. 

“You must have a lot of stories from that time.” 

“Endless stories. We were basically inseparable as children,” Taeil affirms, and the truth of the statement sinks into you as he says it. Your past is filled with memories of him--painted with images of him splayed out in the fields, or leaping into the water, or simply falling asleep at the breakfast table after a sleepless night spent sneaking out to bother the chickens. “If you want,” Taeil muses, lifting a hand to his chin with a sly grin, “I can tell you about the time she lost her shoe in the--”

“Stop,” you reach a hand out in panic, grabbing onto Taeil’s arm to cut off the story before it can begin. “No one wants to hear that story,” you let out a nervous laugh.

“I do,” Sicheng says, glancing down where your hand sits lingering on Taeil’s arm; you pull it back to your side, and resign yourself to the embarrassment that is sure to follow. He turns his attention back towards Taeil as he begins the story--more than happy to offer up your pain as an anecdote for the evening. 

“We were having a foot race through the fields after a particularly intense summer storm,” he begins with a dramatic flourish and you groan inwardly, already dreading the narrative to come, “of course her skirts were at least an inch deep in the mud and were weighing her down rather heavily,” the story continues and Sicheng stands enraptured as Taeil weaves the image together for him. You can picture that day so clearly in your mind, the feeling of the mud sucking you down into the field like a sinkhole, Taeil nearly tearing your sleeve off while trying to pull you out and then diving in to rescue the shoe that you were sure your mother would kill you for if she knew you had lost it. 

The rain slowly beating down on you as Taeil had carried you on his back back towards the house--tears streaming down your face and the both of you covered head to toe in mud which earned you an, admittedly deserved, verbal lashing from your parents as soon as you got inside. 

“I must say,” Sicheng looks towards you when the story comes to its conclusion, laughing softly at the thought, “I can’t quite picture it.”

“Why not?” You ask, curious as to the reason behind his statement. 

“I suppose,” he pauses for a moment in thought, “you seem much more put together now. I can’t picture you as a wild child.” 

Taeil snorts, as if some inside joke has been shared, and shoots you a conspiratorial glance, “she’s definitely much more put together  _ now. _ ”

“Well, I’m glad you two have had fun bonding over my embarrassment,” you sigh. The clock on the wall chimes the hour and you see from the corner of your eye your father yawning wide over his book. Even the laughter and chatter from the other women in the room has died down--everyone now sporting a tired, weary expression in the lateness of the evening. 

Taeil’s mother stands, thanking your parents profusely for the meal and the bed, before retiring upstairs to the guest rooms. Your sister and own mother follow in short order, with your father not too far behind, ushering the three of you towards bed as well. The wooden floors of the stairs creak under the weight as everyone files up towards their respective rooms for the evening; the house has not seen this many guests since the last time your cousins stayed with you, and despite the bizarre circumstances you were grateful for the company as a welcome change of pace from the everyday routine. 

You slip into bed after saying your goodnights and feel the weight of the day sinking into you. Left alone finally, your thoughts return to the circular confusion that had been clouding your mind for the majority of the afternoon. They flicker back and forth between faces--Taeil, Sicheng, Taeil, Sicheng--they swim up in the forefront of your mind once more. You remember Sicheng as he was the day you met him, nervous and timid--afraid of everyone but still only too eager to make conversation with you once he found some common ground. 

And you remember Taeil, as he was when you were children--bright and carefree--and you remember him as he was today beside the creek in the fields. Bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, face fallen in the wake of your confession. He had come all this way on the wings of hope towards you after years of separation, and you had to be the one to ground him with reality. Not once, in all your years of knowing him had you seen that expression on his face until today. 

Sleep consumes you after you exhaust your cyclical thoughts; you pray for a dreamless slumber, only too ready to sink into the relief of darkness--and for once, your prayers are granted. 

\--

The house is abuzz with activity in the morning. Everyone wakes for breakfast early, eager to continue last night’s conversations or to strike up new ones, and you feel renewed after a blessedly restful sleep. The weight of indecision still rests heavy on your heart, but it isn’t as cloying and suffocating as it had been the night before--trapped between Taeil and Sicheng at the table all while wrestling with your own thoughts. Instead you find yourself smiling more easily, even laughing openly at your sister’s jokes over breakfast. The sense of relief washes through you until the meal once again comes to an end and Sicheng stands, turning towards you with a question, “if I may,” he begins, capturing the attention of everyone still seated. “Could I request the privilege of an audience with you,” the nerves are apparent as his voice shakes, “alone?” 

In a rush your mother stands, abandoning her half-cut slice of ham and ushering everyone out of the dining room with a gleeful grin spread across her face. “Of course, of course,” you sit paralyzed, your own nerves tying a knot inside your throat as you watch them leave the room. Taeil looks back at you, meeting your eyes with his own worried gaze before the door is closed and you are left in silence as Sicheng gathers his thoughts to speak. 

“It should come as no surprise,” he begins, and you stand to face him--eyes slightly averted from his own to avoid the intensity of the moment, “that I--” he pauses, hesitating. The nerves that were in his voice before have built to a fine point and you watch his hands as they clench and unclench into fists at his side. 

“Sicheng,” you start, hoping to offer some words to ease the palpable tension in the air but coming up entirely speechless. 

“I return to town soon, and I was hoping you would also--” he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration before giving up on whatever speech he had half-planned. “I love you,” he says, plainly, brown eyes seeking yours for any confirmation of the feelings he wishes to be returned, “quite a lot, actually, and I had to ask before I left if you feel the same, if--” he inhales, breath shaking with the force of his confession--with the fear of rejection or acceptance or both. “If you would do me the honour of marrying me?” 

The question hangs between you--caught in limbo as you ponder it. You had expected it, as much as you had tried to ignore that expectancy, it was there. Standing here, in the center of your family’s dining room facing him now--the buzzing excitement, the sweeping sense of anticipation, and warmth that you felt before--it’s all miles away. Those feelings exist in you, they are there nestled into your heart, but they aren’t attached to Sicheng; here in the light of day you finally come to the realisation that you knew all along where your heart belongs. 

It belongs in the fields of your childhood, running through the mud with your hand clasped tight in Taeil’s firm grip. It belongs at the feet of the boy who promised you at thirteen years old that he would never let you go. It belongs to someone on the other side of the door from you--whose heart you shattered only a day prior. 

Sicheng stands in nervous anticipation--waiting for your response and you wish in this moment you could give him something other than the truth that has formed on your lips, but it has broken free into the air between you before you can catch it. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I wish I could. I really do, but--”

He smiles, the expression not quite meeting his eyes as he nods in understanding, “I know.” The resignation in his voice catches you off guard and he laughs at your surprise, “I knew last night that this was a losing game for me, but still,” he sighs, “I had to ask.” 

“What will you do now?” 

He pauses a moment in thought, fixing his gaze on the ceiling before turning back to you with a slight grin, “maybe I will invest in the new mill.” 

Laughter cuts through the tension, dissolving the atmosphere of the room back into one of calm camaraderie, “I really am sorry, Sicheng. For what it’s worth, if you had asked me five days ago I would have said yes.” 

“Missed my chance, then,” he smiles sadly, turning towards the door only to have it swing open under the weight of your mother and sister pressing against it. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” he bows towards your mother and, before she has a chance to inquire, leaves through the front door and heads off into the morning sun. 

“You said no?” You mother asks, surprise and astonishment colouring her voice. She glances between you and the door as it closes behind Sicheng--open-mouthed and gawping. 

“Where’s Taeil?” You ask, taking note of the absence of him from the small group gathered at the door to the dining room. They all glance around at each other, matching bewildered expressions, until with a roll of your eyes you push through them and head out the front door--propriety be damned. 

For a moment you hesitate; you have no idea where he might have gone in the span of time you spent talking to Sicheng but a voice in the back of your mind directs you across the golden fields towards that old familiar grove of trees. Your mother and sister, accompanied by Taeil’s mother, hover at the front step of the house, watching as you stride through the tall grass, through the stalks of wheat, past the cows and sheep, and head towards the greenery beyond. 

You pause at the entrance to the grove, inhaling a steadying breath, and enter; Taeil stands as you half-expected he would be, next to the gnarled oak tree in the center of the clearing. A small smile plays at the corners of your lips as you walk up behind him in silence, startling him when you come to a stop beside him--eyes trained on the carved heart in the rough, brown bark. 

“Do you remember when we did this?” He asks, tracing a finger over the old memory. You nod, waiting for him to continue the story, “a month before I left for town.”

“I remember.” 

“You told me I wasn’t allowed to leave without first promising to come back when we were older,” he laughs--a light, breathless laugh. “Do you remember that?” 

“I do,” you nod, turning towards him. “I remember you saying you would always come back for me.” 

“Right,” he nods, removing his hand from the wood of the tree and straightening his posture. You stand for a moment, in the silence of the morning broken only by the chirping of nesting birds in the treetops above. The shared memory lingers between you--wrapping you together in a knot of knowing. A knowing of each other, unlike anyone else--shared history, shared memories, shared feelings. 

“Are you going to marry him?” Taeil asks, breaking the silence first and glancing at you--fear of your unspoken answer, of what he imagines it might be, dancing in his brown eyes as he stands in the sun-dappled grove. You can’t help but feel strange in this moment, standing with the boy you’ve stood with so many times surrounded by these same trees. He looks the same--older, yes--but the same. The same brown eyes alight with hope and love, the same golden skin glistening in the light of the sun, the same tremor in his voice as he asks a question he is afraid of. 

You pause a moment in thought, “Sicheng would make an excellent husband,” you consider the possibility out loud. Taeils face falls; a subtle almost imperceptible shift in his expression. Fear of an unknown solidifying into fear of an almost certainty in his mind.

He clears his throat, nodding, "he would." The tremor in his voice remains even as he tries to hide it, speaking softly and trying to steel his gaze, "you would be," hesitating a moment he averts his eyes from you. "You would be an excellent match."

"We would, but Taeil," his attention is caught by the mention of his name and you focus on him. Capturing his gaze once more as you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. Your fingers itch to reach out and take his hand in yours; standing here alone in the middle of a copse of trees you're already subverting societal expectations. All it would take is one of you to reach out--skin to skin--as you had when you were children. Without care, without worry. No thought to anything save the moment. 

"Taeil," you being again, steadying your hands at your side, "how could I marry him when I'm still in love with you?"

The dawn of realisation breaks over his face--clearing away the storm clouds that had been brewing behind his eyes--and his mouth falls open in silent shock. You stand there, bathed in the golden light of the morning sun as it filters through the tops of the trees overhead. Trees that have witnessed your growth together through life; running wild as children, escaping your parents as youths, and sharing your first, fumbling kiss at fourteen years old after racing each other through the rain to the solace of the grove. Trees that now stand witness as Taeil finally speaks, breaking the silence that had stretched taut between you for a moment--a silence filled with so many unspoken memories and words, “can I kiss you?” He asks, voice soft; if you hadn’t been standing so close already you might not have heard him. 

You reach forward, allowing your itching fingers to finally take his in your own--the shock of his warm hands in your own sending a chill over your body. Slowly, you raise his hand to your lips and press a chaste kiss to the knuckles, murmuring a soft “yes,” into his skin there. 

All the awkwardness of youth is gone; the stiff hands, the hesitation, all of it melts into the past as Taeil raises a gentle hand to your cheek, bringing you towards him. A sharp inhale in the wake of anticipation, and then your lips meet. One short, chaste kiss before Taeil pulls back with a smile that lights up the browns of his irises as he looks at you, “what would your mother think of this?” He teases, entwining his fingers with yours. 

“Don’t ruin this please,” you grimace, and he laughs--bright and clear before pulling you back to him. You feel his smile against your lips and sink into the warmth of it, wrapping your arms around him and allowing the world outside to melt away. No thoughts of your family, no thoughts of your past, no thoughts of the future--just here and now, in the arms of the one you’ve loved and waited for. 

And it’s in this moment, as Taeil encircles you in his arms, that you know you’ve made the right choice. 


End file.
